Snapped (6 page)

From there he watched her.

As she reached the door a woman with auburn hair stepped out. The two hugged for a long moment and then stepped back, dabbing away tears.

So much for that brave face back at the apartment. He watched the women enter the bar and gritted his teeth. Plate number KRG 624. Sophia Elise Barrett.

Sophia.

She was a loose end. A potential problem. A mistake. Only one, but it was enough.

It was one too many.

San Marcos was a quiet college town nestled on the banks of a river, and on clear nights some of the bars and restaurants opened their windows to catch the breeze off the water.

The doors to Schmitt’s beer garden were open tonight, but Sophie wasn’t focused on the weather. She sat at the end of a long, sticky table, picking salt from her margarita glass and trying not to listen to the conversations swirling around her. Although this was one of the few watering holes in town without a television, it wasn’t immune to the disaster. People sat at tables and at the bar, swapping stories about where they’d been when it happened and people they knew who had been injured. About half the customers were following the story on their cell phones.

“I was at the Arby’s drive-through,” one of Sophie’s coworkers was saying. “Sounded like firecrackers. Didn’t think anything of it until I passed about three police cars on my way back to work.”

“I was in the lab,” someone chimed in. “We watched the whole thing on YouTube. You see that kid on the bike?”

“Anderson Cooper had him on earlier.”

“Thought he was dead.”

“Nah, just an elbow, I think. They had a camera in his hospital room.”

Sophie looked away and forced herself to take another sip. It tasted like nothing. She might as well have been drinking ice water.

“That woman that died, she was married to my T.A.”

“Nielsen?”

“Kincaid. I had him for biochem. He’s a good guy.”

“So, what’s the body count?”

Sophie’s shoulders tensed.

“Four, last I heard. Eric Emrick and Professor Graham, plus Kincaid’s wife. And, you know, the shooter.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Sophie plunked down her glass. “It’s five.”

They glanced over.

“Jodi Kincaid was pregnant, so really it’s five. I watched her bleed out.”
And didn’t do a damn thing to help her
.

People around the table looked at her, then shifted their glances away uncomfortably. Sure, they’d welcomed her when she’d first shown up, but now her sullen mood was putting a damper on the lively conversation.

She turned away and pretended to be checking out some guys at the bar.

“You okay?”

Sophie glanced at Kelsey, who was watching her with a worried look.

“I should have stayed home,” she said. “I guess … I
don’t know. I didn’t want to be alone tonight, but this really sucks.”

I should have stayed home with Jonah
. As soon as the thought entered her head, she shoved it out again.

“We could go to Mia’s,” Kelsey suggested. “She and Ric are there. She didn’t want to leave him on his own tonight after everything that happened, but maybe we could go over and, you know, just hang out.”

“No.” The last thing Sophie wanted to do was trade stories with Ric. He’d been on the takedown team, which meant he’d seen the man kill himself. He probably didn’t want to rehash his day any more than she did. “They probably want to be alone,” she added, picking up her drink. “When Mia called earlier—”

Crack
.

Sophie jumped in her chair and dropped the glass. She glanced over her shoulder at the back room, where someone was playing pool.

Someone with a very nice break.

Sophie righted her glass and glanced at Kelsey. “Sorry.” She grabbed some cocktail napkins and started mopping up the mess.

“Maybe this was a bad idea.” Kelsey swiped some napkins from nearby drinks and helped her. “This place is so noisy.”

“No, really, it’s good,” Sophie said. Margarita slush was everywhere, and for some reason her eyes started to burn. “I don’t want to be home tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

They piled soggy napkins on the end of the table and Sophie handed her empty glass to a passing waitress.

“Get you another one?”

“Um …” She glanced at the waitress, then the bar. “I’ll just take a beer. Whatever you have.”

The woman gave her a bemused look, but Sophie was too rattled to care. It would probably taste like water, anyway.

Sophie took a deep breath and forced a smile. She’d talked Kelsey into coming here, and it wasn’t fair to ruin her evening, too. Usually their roles were reversed and it was Sophie prodding Kelsey to get out and have some fun. As a forensic anthropologist, Kelsey was typically the one who dealt with death all day and needed a distraction at night.

“So.” Sophie groped for something to say as her friend eyed her with concern. “How are
you
doing? I never heard about your trip to California. How’s—” She stopped midsentence as a familiar man walked into the bar. Tom Rollins from Channel 3. Sophie recognized his too-white teeth from the six o’clock news. Damn, was he here for business or pleasure? His gaze scanned the bar, and then he turned to say something to the man standing behind him—probably his cameraman, although he wasn’t carrying a camera at the moment. But their movements had purpose, and she could tell this was a business outing.

Sophie stood up and grabbed her purse. Insensitive coworkers she could handle. Frayed nerves she could handle. What she couldn’t handle tonight was a reporter, particularly one who knew about her past.

“On second thought,” she told Kelsey, “I think I’ll head out.”

Kelsey got to her feet, looking more worried than
ever. “Want me to follow you home? Or you can come over?”

“No, I’m fine. Really. I think I just need some rest.” Oh, crap. Rollins had spotted her and had that spark of recognition on his face. Sophie quickly turned away. “Cancel my beer, would you?” She gave Kelsey a quick hug. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The most experienced cops in the department were tapped to join the task force, and Allison had no idea why she’d been invited to the party.

She stepped inside the conference room, which smelled of reheated coffee, and immediately noticed the lack of female faces around the table. Men were in abundance, though: three SMDP detectives from the Crimes Against Persons squad, two sheriff’s deputies, and practically all of the top brass from her department. She also noted the suit at the end of the table—probably an administrator from the university. Allison picked an empty chair and sat down beside the head of campus security, whom she’d met several times during the course of her theft investigations. She was glad to see him here. The sooner the finger-pointing got over with, the better.

Everyone settled in with their Styrofoam cups and listened as Lieutenant Reynolds gave a rundown of yesterday’s events, as if everyone at the table hadn’t heard the same litany of facts relayed on the endless cable-news loop.

Allison watched Jonah’s face as the lieutenant talked. He and the other two detectives had a grim, greenish look about them that confirmed where they’d spent the morning. According to the grapevine, they’d been
in Austin at six
A.M
., watching the Travis County ME perform autopsies on yesterday’s victims.

It had to have been horrible, especially the pregnant woman. As dull as property crimes could be, at least Allison had never had to sit in on something like
that
.

Reynolds ended his narrative in typical cop-speak: “Macon and his team confronted him on the south side of the roof, at which time the suspect placed a nine-millimeter pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“Are we done calling him a suspect yet?” Ric crossed his arms impatiently. “The GSR tests checked out and we’ve got his prints all over both weapons.”

“We definitely have our guy,” the chief said. “The question is, who is he?” He turned a pointed look at the crime-scene techs across the table from Allison.

“I was here all night,” Minh responded. The CSI specialized in fingerprint identification, and Allison had worked with him before on burglary and auto theft cases. “I examined both the Sig nine-mil and the Remington, lifted prints. Each one of the prints recovered from the weapons matches the body. No problem there.”

At the word
problem
, the detectives leaned forward slightly. Allison noticed Reynolds and the chief did not. Whatever this news was, they’d already heard it.

“I ran everything through AFIS,” Minh said. “Nothing in the database. I put a call in to Quantico, trying to make sure I’m not missing something. Our digital imaging equipment’s a little outdated, to tell you the truth. The feds haven’t gotten back to me, so as of right now, we have no ID.”

Chairs creaked as people leaned back. There was a collective sigh of frustration.

“I know the dactyloscopist at the Delphi Center.”

All eyes swung toward Allison, and she realized she’d just done the very thing she’d meant to avoid doing at this first task force meeting—drawn attention to herself.

She cleared her throat. “He’s helped me out in the past with some burglary cases.” Skeptical looks all around as she reminded everyone she worked property crimes. “Anyway, he’s got the best equipment available and access to a bunch of different fingerprint databases. It might be worth a try.”

Allison looked at Reynolds and knew he was thinking about his budget. The man was tight as a tick and probably didn’t like the idea of hiring outside experts when they had a CSI trained in fingerprint work. It was one of the few aspects of the case they should have been able to handle in-house, but clearly Minh was in over his head.

“Do it,” Chief Noonan said. “And let’s take them a DNA sample while we’re at it. There’s bound to be a record of this guy somewhere. He shoots up twenty-eight people, he’s got to have a sheet.”

“Not necessarily.”

Now it was Jonah’s turn in the hot seat.

“Fact, I’d be surprised if he did. Sir.”

“Why’s that?” The chief looked annoyed.

“Not all rampage shooters have a criminal history,” Jonah said.

“Oh, are you a profiler now?”

Jonah straightened in his chair, but continued to look confident. “Just stating a fact. He could be a law-abiding citizen who went through some sort of setback—lost his job, his girlfriend, ran into financial problems,
whatever—and then he snapped. No reason to assume he’s been arrested and printed before.”

“Send it to Delphi, anyway,” the chief said, “and do it fast. Doyle, call your friend. I’ll follow up with the director.”

Allison was glad to see Chief Noonan pulling out the big guns. The Delphi Center was one of the world’s top crime labs and it was right in their backyard. But it was private, which meant expensive. Still, the media fallout from this thing threatened to be catastrophic. Less than twenty-four hours in, and the town was crawling with reporters from all over the country. Students were giving interviews on the street. Angry mothers who’d come to yank their kids out of summer school were on CNN venting about gun control and campus security. It wasn’t surprising the chief wanted to get a handle on this thing right away.

And no matter how many task forces they put together and how many high-tech labs they hired to run evidence, it was pretty hard to look competent when they couldn’t even come up with the
name
of the man who had gunned down twenty-eight people.

“What about military databases?” Ric suggested. “Guy could have sniper training, maybe he’s a Marine or something.”

“If he is, he’s not much of a marksman,” Jonah said. “Twenty-five wounded and only three kills?”

“It’s worth pursuing,” Reynolds said. “Look into that angle. And we also need more on the guns. What does the Delphi Center say about restoring those serial numbers?”

“Their ballistics guy left me a message,” Jonah answered. “He hit some kind of snag but thinks he’ll have something later today, definitely by tomorrow.”

The chief looked irritated. “What about the slugs? You get anything useful at autopsy?”

“Each victim took one hit,” Ric reported. “Two head shots and a neck. The bullets went to Delphi—same tracer who has the guns. He’s the best around.”

“Yeah, well, sounds like he’s slow,” Reynolds said. “You two go rattle some cages up there. We need that ID.” He opened a file and pulled out a piece of paper, which he slid across the table to Allison. “Meantime, we’ll try the old-fashioned way. We had a forensic artist at the morgue this morning. She came up with a composite drawing for us.”

Allison gazed down at the picture, which still smelled like fixative. It was done in colored chalk on gray paper and looked as lifelike as a photograph. How had someone drawn this from a corpse, particularly one with the back of his skull blown out? She studied the image, transfixed by the bald man and his icy blue gaze. What sort of thoughts had been going through his mind as he squinted through his scope and took aim at a pregnant woman?